


In The Wake Of You

by Momokai



Series: Infinite Designs [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, Don't Read This, Hannibal Lecter Has Feelings, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Movie: The Silence of the Lambs (1991), My First Work in This Fandom, One Shot, Post-Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, Sad, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 20:56:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16751392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Momokai/pseuds/Momokai
Summary: “Betrayal begets betrayal.”“Except he didn't betray you. You were just blind.”





	In The Wake Of You

Shades of black, dark and faded to grey. Swathes of white, unblemished. Shapes slowly taking form, given substance to the rise and fall of strings. A rolling tenor painting a picture as surely as steady hands stained black lay down another. 

The rasp of charcoal on paper, tragedy given face as its voice regales its audience with Leoncavallo's Vesti La Giubba. The pain of Canio barely drowning out the manic shrieking two cells down. A man clearly not attached to his tongue-

“Don't even think about it.” 

Hannibal sighs as the aria dims, melting away to silence. He carefully sets down the charcoal, away from his work lest it be ruined, and turns in his seat to regard the figure reclined in an almost artful sprawl on his bunk, stormy eyes not moving from the book held open above a face Hannibal had spent a great many hours committing to paper. 

Will doesn't look at him as he adds;

“A man can still scream without his tongue.” An unfortunate truth, Hannibal knows. 

“Perhaps divesting him of his life entirely might improve his demeanour.” He replies easily, turning away from the man on his bed and once again taking up his charcoal. Will hums, and Hannibal can see him turning a page in his peripheral. 

“He is being quite rude, isn't he?” The empath muses dryly, and Hannibal smiles despite himself as he carefully and skillfully deepens the shading of his work. 

“I believe his treatment has been altered to include a particularly invigorating round of ECT,” He says. “A touch heavy handed for our good Doctor, but who am I to judge unconventional therapies?” Will snorts derisively.

“Who indeed.” Is the delightfully heated retort. “Barbaric but, well- we all know that stuck pigs generally squeal the loudest.” Hannibal’s smile turns to one side, lopsided and warm-

Before abruptly sliding off his face. His hand stills, and maroon eyes fall half lidded, glued to the familiar image painstakingly recreated and artfully altered on the paper before him.

“The Death of Patroclus, huh?” Will drawls as he sits up on Hannibal's bunk, setting his book aside. The empath stands on silent feet before stepping up behind him, and Hannibal shudders at the chill creeping into his back from Will's proximity. He wants to press back into it, wrap himself in it until it burns, bites at his flesh. He aches. For Will to touch him, for his cold to devour him. 

“A death mourned intimately by Achilles.” Hannibal agrees softly. Will hums lowly, darkly. 

“Ah,” He says. “But Achilles isn't a part of this story, is he?” Hannibal’s eyes slip closed, and he sighs slowly. 

“No.” He replies. Will's presence disappears from behind him, and two cells down, the screaming continues. 

“Only Hector remains.” 

Just outside his cell, the record player clicks as the needle disengages from the vinyl.

 

“Hannibal.” Maroon eyes open to regard the cracked ceiling, before sliding down. Will stands at the foot of his bunk. “We have a visitor.” The empath states, and Hannibal tilts his head against his pillow. Sure enough, keen ears pick up the telltale clack of hard soles impacting cheap but solid linoleum. He instinctively draws in a deep breath through his nose, scenting the air- but the glass separating him from the hall is thick, and the narrow holes in its surface do not provide adequate airflow. 

He sits up and slides his legs over the edge of the bunk before standing. It would be incredibly rude of him to remain reclined when greeting a guest, after all. He would have perhaps strived to straighten his appearance- but the hour is early and he doesn't quite feel the need. If someone wishes to drop in unannounced at such an hour, they can simply deal with his rumpled clothing and no doubt atrocious bedhead. 

The warden of his little glass prison had seen fit to shear him as one would an animal some time ago, and while his hair had grown back, the ashy strands remained a shorter length than he typically wore, and as a result, tended to become quite unruly without the aid of products. 

And a comb; they'd robbed him of that simple luxury two weeks ago. Honestly. 

Abruptly, Will makes a sound of distaste, and Hannibal returns his attention to his cell door just in time for the incredibly unwelcome figure of one Jack Crawford to stride into view. 

Jack, Hannibal notes immediately, seems haggard. The fine fuzz atop his dark head more salt than pepper. Stress lines his equally dark eyes, and he has, if Hannibal is not mistaken, lost weight. 

It's quite pathetic, in truth.

“You look terrible, Jack.” Hannibal says by way of greeting. Jack’s already dark expression sours further, and Hannibal smiles amicably. 

“Lecter.” The agent spits, back and shoulders stiff as he stands straight on the other side of the glass, as if to tower threateningly over him despite the separation. Hannibal's smile widens. Prey attempting to appear larger than it truly is to trick the circling predator. Still by the foot of his bunk, Will laughs softly, darkly. 

“What can I do for you this fine morning, Jack?” Hannibal asks as the tense silence continues. Jack's jaw works for a moment, before he manages to respond. 

“We need your help.” The words almost seem to pain the man, and Hannibal inhales deeply, as if he could scent it on the agents skin despite the barrier. If he steps closer, breathes in the air from the holes, perhaps he could. 

“Well isn't that quite the predicament?” Hannibal replies amusedly. “For you, that is.” He adds belatedly. Jack glares at him and shifts on his feet, likely entirely unaware of how the action excites the beast before him. It's the motion of prey prepared to flee. 

“And why is that?” Jack asks. Hisses, really. The agents hate practically oozes from the man's pores, and Hannibal finds the sentiment a mutual one. His smile sharpens, exposing a hint of sharp, crooked teeth. 

“Because I have no intention of helping you, of course.” He states simply. Jack's already tense demeanour stiffens further, if possible. 

“We're willing to offer something in exchange.” The agent says, and Hannibal abruptly finds himself biting back a scoff. Instead, his smile slips and he simply stares flatley at the man. By his bunk, Will tuts. 

“Oh Jack,” The empath murmurs, “Don't you know?” Jack eyes him expectantly, and Hannibal feels his face contort without his express permission. His lips peel back in a silent snarl, and his eyes no doubt burn for blood. 

“There is nothing in this world that I want from you, Jack.” He spits. Jack’s own expression almost seems to slacken in surprise at the showing, before quickly hardening once again. The hate returns vividly, bitterly. 

“You still have the gall to blame me, don't you?” The agent barks. Hannibal's lips twitch, aching to part and sink teeth past flesh. Jack snorts, thick with disgust. 

“You killed him, Hannibal, not me.“ The words strike true, and Hannibal clenches his jaw. His fierce expression melts away, leaving nothing behind. A blank slate. 

“I may have held the blade Jack, but it was you who put him in my path.” He counters. Jack's lips pull down harshly at their corners. 

“No, Hannibal. It was all you,” The agent says flatley. “You tore him down and built him back up in your image.” Jack's eyes are bitterly cold. “You made him need you. And then you gutted him.” 

“Betrayal begets betrayal.” Hannibal snaps. Jack shakes his head, and it's as mocking as it is pitying.

“Except he didn't betray you. You were just blind.” 

Hannibal flinches. 

“I'm sending an agent to speak with you in three days.” Jack states after a moment. Hannibal doesn't reply as the man steps away from his cell. “She's putting together a profile. Your expertise would be...appreciated.” The word is flat, a poor attempt at civility. Jack turns to leave, and Hannibal's lips part-

“I thought you'd be tired of it by now Jack.” The agent pauses and turns to regard him blankly. Hannibal doesn't smile this time. “How many more will it take, I wonder? How many of your hopes will you feed me?” He muses. Jack shakes his head in disgust before finally departing.

“Agent Starling will bring the details!” Echoes back down the hall, and by his bunk, Will chuckles hollowly. 

“At least one more, it seems.” 

Hannibal remains silent, and steps back to sit stiffly on his bunk. Maroon eyes lower to regard the cell floor, and in the corner of his eye he can see him. His Patroclus.

“Can you find it in yourself to forgive me?” Hannibal softly asks the silence. There is no reply, and when he looks up, he is as alone in his cell as he always has been. As he always will be.

A teacup that will never come together in the wake of his own shattering.

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> I might do more for this, I might not.
> 
> Also if you're not familiar with the Illiad and the Death of Patroclus, his wits were removed by Apollo in battle (Jack, anyone?) then he was killed by Hector, who stabbed him in the stomach. :D


End file.
